


what happens in the submarine

by shipwreck



Series: all in [1]
Category: Spies In Disguise (2019)
Genre: Barebacking, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, M/M, Sex, Trans Male Character, trans!walter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:02:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22121215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreck/pseuds/shipwreck
Summary: It's one thing to jerk off to the guy, imagining what he looks like naked; it's another to visually scour every inch of his body and save it for future jerk offs.
Relationships: Walter Beckett/Lance Sterling
Series: all in [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595455
Comments: 15
Kudos: 229





	what happens in the submarine

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Very brief touch on body dysphoria, but nothing major. Feel free to message me if you want more detail.

Lance hasn't cottoned onto the fact he's naked yet, too preoccupied touching his newly reformed human body — and it's probably the best and worst thing to ever happen to Walter, who can't bring himself to lower his eyes past Lance's chin.

It's one thing to jerk off to the guy, imagining what he looks like naked; it's another to visually scour every inch of his body and save it for future jerk offs. So Walter keeps his eyes on Lance's face, and very determinedly does not look at the dick dangling literal inches from his face.

"I'm naked," Lance says, looking at Walter. “Little awkward.”

Walter nods. He grabs for the back-up suit, holding it between them as a shield. "Lucky for you, I planned ahead."

Lance glances down at himself, then back up at Walter, making no move to cover himself up. It's obvious he's not shy about his body, which is fair enough, given... given. _Just look at him_. He's all smooth skin and geometric shapes, like his body was designed and built in a lab.

It was easier talking to Lance when he was a pigeon, when his body was a foreign, confusing thing. They were on equal footing then. Now, Lance's body is a weapon and Walter’s the only weird one here.

Lance takes the suit between his hands, like he's mulling it over, like maybe Walter brought the wrong shade of blue (he didn’t — _Oxford Blue_; he’s read the file).

"You don't wanna check me out first?"

Walter chokes on nothing. "What?"

"Don't think I didn't see your thermometer back there.” Oh. Right. “You don't need to check I got feathers for lungs or a beak where a beak got no business being?"

"Do you?" Walter asks, keeping steady eye contact. He knows for a fact the formula worked exactly as it was supposed to, so he has no idea what this is.

"Nah," Lance puts the suit to the side, stepping closer — which is impossible because this is the smallest submarine in existence, and Walter is already sitting in the only seat and being a good two heads shorter means Lance is _looming_. "You know, you're a lot smaller than I remember."

“That's because you were the size of my foot two minutes ago.” He can't figure out what this is. Lance's face is harder to read in human form, even this close. Is he stalling putting his clothes on? Or is he having second thoughts on _the unbirding_? 

Then Lance touches a hand to Walter's jaw and tilts his head back. "Were your cheeks always this pink?" 

Walter’s heart jumps in his throat, but he doesn’t look away. It’s almost like Lance is flirting, and Walter knows better than to let Lance get the upper hand. "Technically your eyesight was better as a pigeon, so if anything you’re likely readjusting." 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Lance grins, and he _is. _He’s _flirting_. Buck naked with his hand on Walter’s chin, eyes half-lidded —_ flirting_.

Walter turns away, blinking at Lovey who’s nestled on the dashboard. She tilts her head at him, as if to say, “_What are you waiting for_?” (or maybe she’s thinking about breadcrumbs, who knows). 

He swallows, looking back at Lance, who leans down, eyes hard, probably trying to read Walter as much as Walter is trying to read him.

Lance must get there first, because his mouth twitches into a smile and he moves closer — _closer_, and Walter panics. “Wait.” He puts a hand on Lance’s face, almost slapping him in his haste. “There’s something I should tell you before you do… whatever it is you’re planning to do — ”

Lance pulls back far enough to dislodge Walter’s hand and steady him with an unimpressed look. “Kid, I’m trying to kiss you here. Do you want me to or nah?” 

Oh. “Yeah.”

“Alright then.”

Then Lance kisses him.

It’s different to what Walter expects, mostly because every time he thought about this it was a fantasy. The kind of ridiculous fantasies that never happen. There would be slow-burn pining that lead to declarations of love and a bed would just happen to be nearby (although one time they were in the lab after-hours because Lance had just returned from a covert mission, so impressed with Walter’s _Neigh Plum Bomb_ he fell head over heels for him, so overcome with passion, he just had to take him there on the desk). They weren’t in a too-cramped submarine, surrounded by pigeons, with Lance pushing a knee between between Walter’s thighs on the seat because there’s _no space_, Lance’s mouth wasn’t so firm, his hand so hot. 

Walter slides his hands from Lance’s chest to his neck, fingers brushing at the fuzz at the nape of his neck, making Lance exhale roughly through his nose.

It wasn’t like this in his fantasies, but this is good. It’s really good.

When Lance pulls away, Walter notes his pupils are dilated, his lips parted, breathing laboured. If he touched two fingers to the pulse of Lance’s neck, he knows he’d feel his heartbeat elevated. 

_I did that_, Walter thinks. 

“You alright?” Lance asks.

“Yeah.” To his horror, his voice comes out _squeaky_. He clears his throat. “I mean, _yeah_. Y’know. Whatever.”

Instead of making fun of him, Lance’s expression softens. He looks so _fond_, it makes Walter bones turn to goo. 

“Listen, I’d love to keep doing this but — ”

And that’ll be Walter’s bone-goo freezing.

“ — my back’s killing me,” Lance finishes.

Oh.

He stretches out as best he can in the confined space, and _yep _that’s the dick Walter was trying to avoid looking at. He averts his eyes, but it’s too late, Lance Sterling’s semi-erect dick is burned into his brain. “Switch with me.”

For a moment, Walter has no idea what he’s talking about — then, Lance is pulling him up and out of the seat, plonking his bare ass down and yanking Walter onto one thigh.

It must be obvious to Lance that Walter hasn’t done this sort of thing much. Their noses keeps bumping, and Lance has to grip his face, help tilt his head into a better angle. The kissing gets harsher, until Walter’s mouth is tingling, and Lance is licking at his bottom lip, and Walter’s head is made of cotton and all he can do is feebly lick back.

“I’mma put my tongue in your mouth now,” Lance murmurs. “Don’t go biting me.”

“No biting,” Walter whispers. “Got it.”

Lance pauses. “’kay, a _little _biting, I’ll forgive.”

Then there’s a tongue in his mouth, sliding against his own. It’s so warm, and wet, it’s hard not to feel warm and wet _everywhere_.

In this position, the height difference works in their favour. Lance slides one hand under Walter’s clothes, right where the small of his back is. His hand is _so big_, splayed out like this, the heat burns all the way through to Walter stomach. Or maybe, he thinks faintly, that’s just arousal.

This is beginning to feel dangerously similar to Walter’s jerk-off fantasies, which, if he’s honest — he’s not sure either of them are ready for. 

But then, Lance is pulling him closer, so they’re chest to chest, with Walter’s knees on either side of the seat, and Walter can _feel _how aroused Lance is, and if things keep escalating at the rate they’re going, eventually Lance is gonna notice Walter isn’t hard too.

Walter disconnects their mouths, shuddering at the wet sound. “Um, there’s something I should probably tell you,” he says, but Lance isn’t listening, hands between their bodies, unbuttoning Walter’s pants with a comical amount of focus. “Lance.” 

Pulling the zipper down and slipping a hand into the slit of Walter’s briefs. “It can’t wait until after we’ve finished?” 

A finger unceremoniously pokes at Walter’s folds, grazing his clit and he squawks, unprepared.

Both of them still.

“Not exactly…?” Walter replies.

Lance stares at his hand, half-hidden by the fabric of Walter’s briefs, then looks up, eyes wide. He isn’t screaming, which is a good sign, but he doesn’t appear to be breathing either. 

“So, you may have been expecting something different…” Walter says, slowly. “But I’d like to point out, there are many benefits to this situation.” 

“Walter,” Lance interrupts. “Is this a…?” 

“Ye_p_.”

“Are you…?” 

“Mm hm.”

“Oh.”

“Surprise?” Walter offers, with a sheepish grin. Maybe this is a deal breaker, but — and Walter can’t explain why — he suspects it isn’t. He knows Lance is good at rolling with the punches, so to speak. And there’s just… a _feeling_.

Lance squeezes his eyes shut, nostrils flaring, and just when doubt starts creeping down Walter’s spine, his eyes flash open again _(pupils dilated, breathing laboured) _and he’s pulling Walter back into a kiss, and apparently, Lance had been holding back before. This kiss is searing, teeth biting harshly at Walter’s mouth, tongue swiping at Walter’s teeth, Lance groaning low in his throat when Walter starts kissing back.

“You coulda told me,” Lance says, pressing their foreheads together. His voice is hoarser than Walter’s ever heard it. “Not sure how much good I can do with this angle.”

When two fingers start rubbing circles at his clit, he jerks his head away to gasp, hands scrabbling for purchase on Lance’s shoulders. “I’d say you’re making it work.”

The fingers slip lower, getting wet before returning to stroke back and forth, up and down, slow, then fast. Walter’s insides clench down on nothing, the muscles tightening, his skin getting hotter. 

Lance noses at the side of his jaw, stubble prickling his neck, rubbing gentle circles a little too high. “We shoulda kept _you_ in the chair, coulda wrapped your legs around my neck.”

Walter’s eyes flash open, his clit throbbing. He tries to breathe, his whole so body tight none of the oxygen can get in. Lance chooses that moment to swipe his finger down, rubbing firmly, just as he bites down on Walter’s neck. 

And Walter’s gone.

“I got you,” Lance murmurs, under Walter’s whines. It’s too much — his whole body lurching with the spasms. Lance keeps rubbing him through it, and if Walter had enough air in his lungs to speak he would tell him it’s enough, he’s already there. But then, Lance asks, “How many can you give me?” and speeds up the pace.

He makes Walter come three more times before he stops — and only because Walter grabs his wrist and pulls it out of his pants and presses it to the arm rest.

Lance smooths his other hand down Walter’s back, through his shirt and hoodie. Walter leans heavily into his chest, resting his chin on the back of the seat, trying to catch his breath with aftershocks shuddering through him.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an overachiever?”

“’ey, you were the one going on about the benefits of the situation.” Lance’s chest hair is coarse against Walter’s fingers. He combs through the curls, tracing his finger over the tattoo on his chest. 

“That's not what I meant.”

“Oh, trust me, I know what you meant,” Lance huffs. “You wanna get your narrow ass out of those pants?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice. In Walter’s rush to get to his feet, he trips, banging his elbow on the dashboard. Then he forgets to take his shoes and socks off before tackling the pants, so they end stuck around his ankles and he hits his head on the glass trying to get out of them, spooking some of the pigeons who forget where they are and crash into one another before realising they’re in an enclosed space and settling back down. 

It’s, all in all, a disaster, but when he finally does get his pants off, Lance isn’t laughing at him, or putting his suit back on having changed his mind — he is, however, leaning back in the seat, stroking himself, staring at Walter with a hooded smile. 

Walter resists the urge to pull his hoodie down as far as it’ll go, but it’s tough. This is the most naked he’s been in front of anyone other than his mom. And, not that he wants to think about his mom right now, but she was always the only one who ever supported him — who made him believe it was okay to be himself. 

But maybe Lance will think it’s weird. Lance, who has the perfect body. Lance, who’s probably slept with other people who have perfect bodies.

“C’mere,” Lance murmurs.

Walter goes, lets Lance pull him into his lap, hovering awkwardly. 

Lance positions himself with one hand, leaves the other in the small of Walter’s back. “You sure about this?” 

Honestly, he has no idea. His brain’s not exactly working at full capacity right now. His lateral orbitofrontal cortex is offline and there’s a possibility this is a bad idea, but it’s hard to remember why when the tip of Lance’s cock is literally nudging against his hole. “Are you?”

Lance shrugs one shoulder. “Ninety-nine percent.”

Those are pretty good odds, but — “What would make it a hundred?”

“If you were too.”

_He likes me_. It shouldn’t be such a surprise, considering where they are and what they’re doing, but it is. _He like-likes me_. His heart feels so full, he has suck in a breath to relieve the pressure. 

“Me too,” Walter grins. “All in.”

Then, he bears down. 

Lance’s hand on his back slips, then lets go. Once he’s in, both hands going to Walter’s hips. Not applying pressure, just holding on. It’s _a lot_. Walter’s insides are oversensitive, and every inch he takes in sets off more nerves and it’s good, but it’s blurring on too much. By the time he’s fully seated, he’s panting, trying to keep it together. 

“We’ll do this at your pace,” Lance says, which almost makes him laugh. As if Walter had any intention of letting Lance dictate the speed. “Take your time.”

“You know, I think I’m good to sit here another twenty minutes,” Walter bites out. “It’s a while until we get there. I’m not in a rush. Are you?”

“You talk way too much for someone who just came four times,” 

“Actually, oxycotin continues to be released even after orgasm, inducing a sense of euphoria, which can lead to the desire to bond through verbal communication.” Lance glares. “Just saying.”

“Shoulda known you’d be mouthy even like this,” Lance grunts, as Walter lifts himself up. It’s amazing how even that feels good. 

He slides back down slow, relishing in the sensation, trying to catch his breath through the haze. 

Lance kisses his throat, rubbing a hand down his back. “Relax. Focus on breathing.”

Faintly, Walter notes Lance’s voice is strained too, but it’s hard to think. This isn’t the first time he’s had sex; he’s _had sex_, but it’s never been like this, like every nerve is a live wire. He focuses on inhaling on the upstroke and exhaling on the downstroke, which works fine until his body starts moving on its own, quickening the pace, chasing the feeling. He doesn’t need to come again but his body wants to try anyway. 

Lance doesn’t seem to be faring much better. Sweat’s beaded on his forehead, and his grip on Walter’s hips has tightened painfully hard, like he wants to move but is holding back.

“You can,” Walter pants. “I want you to.”

Lance’s face darkens. Then he’s lifting his hips up to meet Walter’s, thrusting up and into him, firm, long strokes, punching the air out his lungs. It’s a lot, and he’s probably holding onto Lance’s shoulders too hard, but _god_, it’s good. He had no idea it could be this good.. Walter’s dimly aware of Lance’s groans getting rougher, too busy trying to hold on. He feels it before he sees it — the warmth between his legs, the hands gripping into his hips — Lance’s face contorts, like he’s in pain, and it’s startling how Walter’s chest aches at the sight.

_This can’t be a one time thing. This has to be a forever thing_.

Lance’s eyes snap open, and for a split second, Walter panics he’s spoken out loud, but turns out Lance just forgot to breathe, apparently, suddenly exhaling noisily, and gulping in air. 

“Sorry, I’m — That was really —” Lance thumps back in the seat, his cock shifting inside Walter and making them both shudder. He lifts his head suddenly. “Wait. Did you finish?”

Walter wants to cry. “No. If I come again I’ll need a hospital.”

Lance laughs, settling back again and closing his eyes. “I’ll take that compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Yeah, it was. 

Walter traces over Lance’s features with his eyes, memorising each line. Of course Lance is the kind who gets sleepy after sex. The world’s greatest spy, knocked out by a measly orgasm.

_Snorgasm_, his brain helpfully supplies. He giggles to himself, and Lance smiles, even though he has no idea what Walter is giggling about. 

It’s probably the post-sex affection, but Walter’s chest feels dangerously full. At some point, they’ll have to leave this little bubble they’re in — get out of this seat, clean themselves up (they’re a mess) and put their clothes on, go save the world.

But they’ll do it together, so it won’t be so bad.


End file.
